


Rose Petals on Canvas

by itsaquinnquinnsituation



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:20:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsaquinnquinnsituation/pseuds/itsaquinnquinnsituation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>November afternoon in Florence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose Petals on Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters, real or based off real people, are mine, I am not making money off my work and this is for entertainment purposes only. I do not intend to offend or insult anyone.
> 
> This is my universe and exactly how I see it. Writing should be enjoyed, not judged.
> 
> This piece is for those of you who also enjoy my actual universes, besides the plot. So if you liked Sky So Blue and It Never Rains in Belgrade, I hope you will like this one as well...

"Harry!... Harry!... Jesus!... Ugh!" - Almost immediately upon opening the front door with his own key, Louis trips over a sportsbag left carelessly in the hallway. He picks it up and tosses it aside.

Harry, wiping his hands on his plain white tee and black trousers, comes out from the depths of his flat, bashful smile playing on his lips. It takes just one look at him for any kind of display of joy that may have adorned Louis' face prior to his ungraceful entrance to disappear completely:

"But for God's sake, Harry! It's already half-twelve!"

"I know, I'm sorry" - Harry does not take his eyes off the floor, - "I... uh... must have spaced out for a bit..."

"For a bit?" - Louis seethes, - "You told me we could make the reservation at one! And you certainly are not going like this!" - He motioned at Harry's pyjama-like attire (Louis himself was sporting a suit, but of course), - "It's quite a fancy place, you know!"

"Yeah, sorry.... I will change right now!" - Harry smiles apologetically and attempts to proceed to the wardrobe which is conveniently situated by the empty wall in his disarrayed studio, but just then, an old kettle gives off an eardrum piercing whistle, so, slipping on a mess of papers on the floor, Harry rushes to placate it. Louis shakes his head, examining the chaos around him.

Harry rents a tiny cramped studio in a quiet corner of Florence. It is an old flat, painted a peacefull off-white, with elaborately ornamented furniture that borders on antique, having that soft dusty smell native to archives and libraries. There are books and clothes strewn around on the hardwood floor, a tiny table just to the side of the window is buried under mounts of paper, canvasses, paints, brushes and palitras. An old typing machine has been banished unto the floor as the only available chair is now supporting a huge photocamera. And the window... The window is open.

It is quite chilly outside and Louis shivers instinctively, looking at the white curtains flapping in the November wind. He told Harry hundreds of times to close the goddamn window, but he never does. Whether he'd be freezing his arse off or racking up a massive heating bill, Harry does not give a damn. He likes those white curtains flailing about, like ghosts, scents of the street entering the room, he likes that he can see the sky over the neighbouring building and reach out to catch the raindrops. Louis witnessed it a number of times, Harry leaning out of the window, waving at him, Louis' heart nearly stopping with worry that Harry would actually fall right out. 

He picks up a few sketches off the ground and sighs. His friends are always asking him why he is doing this. They say that he, Louis, is an accomplished young man, well-educated, with a stable job, great credit score and important connections, oh, a brand new car to top it all off. Harry, on the other hand, has nothing. He is a freelance artist and writer, who can never remember to pay his bills, who loses his keys at least once a day, and who is always, pathologically, late. And who, well, always creates all this mess.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Harry!" - Louis extracts a caked paint brush out of a dirty coffee mug, - "This is really getting out of control!"

"Well, good thing we're moving to a bigger place!" - Harry smiles amicably, appearing out of a one-by-one kitchen with two steaming cups of Earl Grey.

"I am not letting you trash OUR place when we move!" - Louis scowls, throwing another glance at the suffocated table, - "And this, ugh....seriously??"

He proceeds to reach out to the windowsill where a small vase lays overturned by a particularly mischievous gust of wind. Wilting roses have spilt out of it and now were resting on the very edge, their heads hanging mournfully just over the floor. On the floor, on top of heaps of paper and albums, lays an unevenly cut unused piece of cheap canvas. Soft pink petals litter this rough, crude cloth, and tiny droplets of water sit undisturbed in crystalline domes on top and amongst them...

Harry follows Louis' gaze with his own and, before Louis can frustrate the scene, pushes him lightly aside with a rushed, breathless: "No!" Paying no attention to the lad's perplexed stare, in one swift motion, Harry snags the camera off the chair and, clearing off a bit of space, crouches down on the floor, aiming the objective right at the canvas. 

"What in the world..." - Louis attempts meekly, but Harry interrupts him with a quiet gentle whisper, barely audible between the snaps of the shutter:

"It's okay if you can't see it, Louis. But to me, it's..." -He pauses, turning in Louis's direction briefly and smiling to himself, - "It's beautiful, I guess..."

He continues to smile as he lowers the camera, just sitting there, looking at the rose petals on canvas. His friends are always asking him why he is doing it. They say that he, Harry, is an unusually talented young man, having a keen eye for art and a creative mind that now and then comes up with absolutely breathtaking short stories and poems, and he is a free spirit with a vision and a heart for all of mankind. Louis, on the other hand, is nothing. He is a clean-cut accountant who works overtime and only wears suits, has very few interests and is obsessive-compulsive with money. And who, well, is always disturbed when things don't follow a routine. 

Harry notices Louis looking from him to the canvas and back, and gets up.

"Sorry" - He offers with the same apologetic smile that he wears nearly all the time around his love, - "I still have not gotten dressed. Let me just..."

But as he attempts to squeeze past Louis, the latter grabs him by the arm and turns to face him. Their eyes are locked for just a second before Harry, without further prompting, envelops Louis in a soft cloud of a hug. He places his arms lightly over Louis' rough tweed jacket and feels Louis rest his chin on his shoulder and sigh. Then, Harry starts murmuring a slow serenade into his ear, something he just heard on the street the other day while standing in line for fresh fruit. He feels Louis exhale all air completely and morph, like liquid, fitting himself entirely within Harry's hug. Harry sways gently back and forth until he finishes the song.

"I better go get dressed, Louis" - he whispers into Louis' ear, but makes no effort to disconnect.

"Don't bother" - Louis responds after a while, just as slowly, and without opening his eyes, light smile ghosting on his lips, - "Actually... well, actually I knew you wouldn't be ready... so... I just rang up Pascale and asked him to cook us some chicken and pasta by about half one.... and... to save that corner table for us if we decided to actually come down. Otherwise, he was more than happy to send Maurizio up here with the food..."

Harry laughs quietly and feels Louis snicker into his neck as well, then he peels him off of himself, as if removing an extra layer and, fixing his half-lidded blue eyes with an intent gaze of the darkened ones of his own, gives him a slow, deep kiss. A gust of wind from the outside enters through an open window, an uninvited and unwelcome guest, and Louis growls a little, prompting Harry to en-cloud him anew in a hug.

"Why does it work so well for us, Louis?" - He mouthes, barely audible, into Louis' ear, careful not to dislodge Louis' chin off his own shoulder.

"I think you just saw it yourself there, Harry" - Louis responds in a matching whisper, - "I am the canvas and you are the rose petals. Each on our own, we're really nothing. Together..." - He smiles to himself without opening his eyes, - "...together, we are art."


End file.
